split second that said more than the doctor ever could with words. Then the doctor slowly shook his head, and Brett suddenly felt like he was falling.
___
President Kendall stood at the window looking out over the South Lawn of the White House. Although the sun had set an hour earlier, the grounds were illuminated below the soft glow of lights. The marigolds were still vibrant—their yellows, purples, and reds foreshadowing what would soon happen to the trees around them. It was starting already, he noted—a few trees had already begun to turn. With the exception of the marigolds, most of the summer plantings had already been trimmed back.
Two uniformed Secret Service officers stepped into view, a routine patrol, he knew. Despite the serenity of the scene before him, the two officers reminded him that the elaborate security apparatus that protected the White House was ever vigilant. Over the years, the U.S. had become a target for violent extremism and for terrorists from around the world. To many, the White House was the U.S. But tonight, the president thought with a sigh as the two officers disappeared from his view, he wasn’t worried for his own security. He was worried about the three hundred million citizens who depended on him to keep them safe.
He turned away from the window and stepped back to his desk and the Top Secret folder sitting in the middle. The military operation was being called Night Stalker. He had shared his concerns—a handful only—and felt confident that they would be addressed. Of course, he still needed to meet with President Magaña. Although his phone calls with the Mexican President left him in no doubt that they were aligned, he wanted to meet face to face. There were still one or two aspects that he needed to clarify and, more importantly, he needed Magaña’s assurances that the structural reforms Mexico was proposing were real.
His meeting with the chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee had gone better than expected, and he was optimistic that Barbara Tanner would be able to quietly secure the votes—and the funding—he needed.
Still he was troubled. Operation Night Stalker along with the domestic program—code-named Twenty-Twenty—would represent a dramatic change in the war on drugs. Two years ago, they had tried something similar—to Night Stalker at least—but they had only succeeded in making matters worse. Since then, the situation in Mexico had deteriorated, and he knew that he was largely to blame. He had opened Pandora’s box, and now he had to close it.
Not any closer to the clarity he was seeking, he dropped the folder back on his desk and stepped out of the Oval Office onto the West Colonnade. He nodded to the agents outside. He paused for a second as he stared out again over the lights on the South Lawn before he turned and headed toward the Rose Garden. It was cold—he probably should have grabbed an overcoat—but the air felt good. He needed a few minutes to think, and over the last year, he had found that a stroll in the Rose Garden, in any season, often helped to clear his head.
He sighed, chastising himself as he thought about Brett. He should have noticed earlier. He should have said something sooner. Would it have made any difference? The doctors had offered little hope, telling Brett Watson that the tumor was too large, that the cancer had already metastasized. He had called Brett right away and had visited him in the hospital. But he knew there was little that he could say to Brett or to his wife to ease their pain, to ease their fear.
Selecting Brett’s replacement wouldn’t be easy and, the more he thought about it, his options were limited. Jessica Williams, who had been filling in for Brett, was capable—that was his initial impression at least—but he hadn’t worked with her long enough for her to become a trusted advisor. That took time.
He briefly considered someone in his cabinet, but quickly rejected the idea. Half of his
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